A/N: Our finale. If you don't know The Wild Wild West's opening, check it out on Youtube: "The Wild Wild West" TV intro. The chapter will make better sense if you do. And the theme can set the mood.

And, so, without further ado...

Nothing Like A Train

Chapter Twenty-Seven: East, West: Home?

Snow has started falling intensely, heavy, damp flakes plummeting through the dark, white plumb lines.

The Intersect permeates me and I permeate it. My body forms the objectivity of the Intersect; the Intersect forms the subjectivity of my body. The Intersect is not inside me; I am not outside it. Our outlines perfectly overlap. I find myself and the Intersect in my non-bodily circumstance, in this Russian snowfall.

The tranq gun hangs heavy in my belt. The broomstick feels light but hard in my hand, an extension of my body.

We are atop the rise the chopper pilot pointed out. We can see the rail yard in the distance, although there are few lights, almost none.

Casey, in the lead, has crouched down. Sarah is beside him. Casey lifts the night vision binoculars around his neck and peers through them. I see him move, stop, move, stop, move, stop.

Lowering them, he looks back at Sarah, then farther back at me. "Four on board, you think?"

I nod. He continues in a rough whisper. "There are four guards outside. One on the front end of what I take to be Volkoff's train, The Wanderer, another at the rear. Two are standing beside it," he checks again with the binoculars, "...yep, sharing a cigarette."

Casey lifts the binoculars off his neck and hands them to Sarah. She looks then hands them to me. As I look, the grid that has appeared before (Moscow, the way to the yurt) appears again, projected from me, and the rail yard organizes itself in my head, all the Russian Railways information available to me now locking into place, giving me a digital as well as an analog layout of the place, a bizarre stereoscopy.

I put the binoculars down but the grid stays in place, readjusted for my now-unaided vision. I report the exact distance to each of the end guards, front and rear, and the two smokers in the middle.

There's a large rail garage looming behind The Wanderer, the repair facility, large enough for the largest engines. A light burns inside but I cannot tell what it means. Casey looks at me, as does Sarah, and I realize they are waiting for me to tell them what to do.

We have to board the train before it moves — if it does. We cannot alert anyone on-board that we are there. I point to the guard in the front, only barely visible to the naked eye.

"Casey, you take him. Sarah," I point to the one at the rear, "you take him. They are far enough away that the sound of a struggle is unlikely to alert anyone on the train. I'll take the two smokers. Remember, make sure we haven't missed anyone before you board. I'm going after Volkoff."

They each nod a single time.

Casey starts along the tracks. Sarah watches him go. She turns to me. "I expect to be somewhere making love to you tomorrow, Mr. Walker-to-be."

I grin tightly in response. "That's the final part of our plan, Mrs. Bartowski-to-be."

She brushes my cold lips with her cold lips and gives me a meaningful stare, then she slips away from the tracks and into the snow-blown darkness. Casey is no longer visible.

They are both the best. I am not a spy but I can do what spies do. I move toward the two guards, staying as low as my height, and my need to move quickly, allows.

Multiple tracks separate me from The Wanderer, the tandem guards. I steer more by the moving pinprick of orange, the glowing tip of the shared cigarette, than by the Intersect's map. But the Intersect keeps a record of the shrinking distance between me and them. Stray railroad cars stand stationed at various points on the tracks, with no discernible pattern.

I angle toward one of them, although doing so adds distance to my trek. I want the cover, need it. I manage to get to the nearest car and I crouch at its end, peeking around it. I see a flare, flame, and for a moment, I ready myself for trouble — but then I realize they have lit another cigarette.

They are chatting in Russian, the sound of their voices just audible on the wind.

"So, when does this carnival ride leave? When can we go back inside? This damn snow is wet; I'm soaked." A man's voice, bored, irritated.

A gun hangs from his shoulder, his hands are occupied with the cigarette, one holding it, the other shielding it from the damp flakes of snow.

"Stop complaining," the other voice says, a woman's. "These rubles are low-hanging fruit. And plentiful. The train will leave when it leaves. Sometime before dawn. Don't be too curious. Curiosity will get you into trouble. Just stand here and keep a lookout. Now, give me the cigarette. It's our last one."

She reaches out for it, shaking her hand in demand.

Neither is looking at me. They are both wrapped up in the transfer of the cigarette, one to the other. I use the moment to take out the tranq gun and move quickly toward them, getting as close as I dare then stretching out on the snow. It melts into my shirt. I rest the broomstick on the ground in front of me and I aim the tranq gun, the Intersect gauging the distance to them, adjusting for the wind. I blink the snow out of my eyes and let my arm stabilize on the broomstick. I wait, the man in my sights.

Time clicks by, a few seconds, a few more, then I hear noise from the rear of the train. The heads of the two guards snap up at the sound, and I squeeze the trigger. All the work in the woods with Sarah pays off. But the tranq gun jams when I pull the trigger the second time. I am up and racing toward the woman as the man crumples beside her. She turns at the sound, and I am upon her as she does. She opens her mouth but I jab at her throat with the broomstick, my domestic bo. Instead of a yell, she manages only a strangled, gurgling sound. The sound makes my gut wrench.

She crumples beside the other guard, the cigarette falling onto the snow between them. I step on it, pressing it into the snow and cinders as I move between them and swing myself up onto the train, the front coach car. The car has no windows. I stand on the platform at its end, the car's design actually, if vaguely, reminiscent of The Wanderer, more American- than European-looking. A wooden door, ornate and green, faces the small platform. Trang gun stowed, I carefully tug on the door handle. To my surprise, it slides open silently, revealing a small compartment and another door, this one gray steel.

I'm worried about Sarah, Casey, but I trust them. Any moment could result in discovery; I need to move. I step into the small compartment and the wooden door slides closed. A glow emanates from a small screen in the wall to my right. A digital, numerical keyboard is displayed. Below it is a small speaker.

I have no idea what the right number would be, although '666' leaps to mind. Propping my broomstick against the wall, I reach around to the small pouch attached to my belt to retrieve a screwdriver, hoping I can unmount the screen and manage to bypass it.

"What do you see, Chuck?" I hear a voice but not in my ear, my earpiece. It's a hoarse whisper — coming from the speaker. But it's not Sarah, not Casey. Not Volkoff.

"Dad?" I manage to keep my voice a whisper.

"Sorry to...um...surprise you, but you're going to need my help if you are going to get inside."

I reel. This can't be happening. But he's done this kind of thing to me before. Orion has. My dad, the genius, the crazy man.

"How do you know where I am?"

"Because I am there too. Virtually. I helped you and your mom escape Volkoff's building, remember?"

That's true, but I had imagined him patched into Volkoff's computers from somewhere far, far away, somewhere in, say, the States. Mom had not suggested otherwise. "Where are you?"

"I'm in an apartment in Moscow. I've managed to hack into the security cameras at the rail yard. Harder to do than I expected. I 've been watching, saw you, saw you go inside the car. I'm using the garage's wifi to tap into the train's wifi, and I'm partially into the train's security system." I hear the faint sound of his keyboard, clacking. "Not Volkoff's computer system, damn it. Compartmentalized. Right now, I'm working to get more under control...maybe the engine. It's all so damn complicated. — Casey and Sarah are fine, by the way, they're securing the immediate area. But you need to hurry. More guards in the garage. They could join the party at any minute."

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to believe my ears. "You knew about The Wanderer?"

He sighs, abbreviated. "No, son. I mean I know quite a lot about the hardware on it, and I knew, in general, some such mobile command existed, Mary and I knew for a while, but I did not know about it until half-an-hour ago."

"How?" I can't seem to get my mind to work.

"I followed the helicopter." He stops there, as all should be obvious. "Well, the pilot. He informed me."

I open my eyes and shake my head, worried that I am hallucinating, losing my Intersected mind.

Dad goes on quickly. "The chopper pilot doesn't just work for Beckman, Chuck. He's freelance, a friend of mine from earlier trips to Moscow. Look, I will explain later. Tell me what you see."

I just accept the perverse, pervasive unreality of the situation. "A screen. Digital keyboard. Numeric."

"Right, right," Dad says quickly. "Try 37678."

"Try it, Dad?"

"Use it, it'll work."

"You can't just override it?"

"No, it's got to be activated by the physical keyboard, either there or inside. I know; I designed the componentry. Volkoff bought the design, the hardware, from one of my companies."

What? Huh? I let that go and get ready to punch the sequence in and then freeze, my finger just above the screen: 37678 = FROST. "Dad, that number is…"

"I know," Dad replies, his whisper thick, "don't think about that right now," — he pauses — "but, how is she?"

"Stable, now."

I hear him release a breath. "Okay. I've been terrified for her. The pilot told me she was shot but I...she doesn't want to see me. We haven't been face-to-face in..."

"Maybe you should see her anyway, Dad."

He says nothing for a second, then: " Be careful, Chuck, I can't help you in there. Remember, under Volkoff, he's Hartley.."

I punch in Mom's codename and the door slides open with a sad-sounding pneumatic sigh.

I grip my broomstick.

No lights are on in the car, but the dull glow of the security screen beside me illumines it a bit. Near me is a table, covered with papers, maps, clear teacups. Beyond it is a bed, a body beneath a sheet. I grab my bo and tiptoe inside. The steel door sighs shut. I take a small flashlight from my pouch, click it on, glance at the papers, maps, trusting the Intersect to retain what I see. I touch one of the teacups, half full. Cold.

Silently, I move deeper into the car. At the end of the bed, I shine the flashlight and realize that the sheeted body is alive, asleep, a woman. I didn't expect that. Suddenly, she sits up, the sheet falling. She is wearing lingerie and a gun.

I throw the bo at her, and leap onto the bed, following it. She dodges the bo but I catch her gun hand in my and twist. As I do, I hear cries from outside the car, muffled. Shots ring out. More shots.

Sarah! Casey!

I twist harder and she breathes out a curse, dropping the gun on the bed. I feel her tremble beneath me, but then I realize it is not her, but the train. It is starting to roll, to move.

More shots outside. I think I hear my name, a scream.

Sarah!

The car floods with light. I look up to see Volkoff in the doorway opposite the one I used. He has a gun in his hand and he points it at me. He smiles in surprise.

"Mr. Bartowski?"

I glance from him to the woman. It's my mom.

It's my mom, but as I saw her last in Burbank, all those years ago. When she turned out the light in my bedroom. My head spins, I back off the bed and raise my hands. I can't stop staring. My head won't stop spinning.

Shots. Sarah! Casey!

Mom?

And then I feel the train moving faster. I hear more shots. But they seem farther away. I turn to the door but hear Volkoff speak. "Another step and I will kill you, and I would so hate to do that, Mr. Bartowski."

I turn. I look at Volkoff then at the woman. It's my mom but not my mom.

Volkoff sees me staring. "Yes, she looks like Frost, doesn't she. But the Frost you met, she hasn't...aged...well. The Frost I imagine when I close my eyes looks more like this." He nods toward the woman who smiles at him. "Luckily, Aculina, who already resembled my image of Frost, was willing to submit to further...alterations. You see, that image, it troubled my sleep. I needed to materialize it."

I'm having a hard time processing. My panic for Sarah and Casey, my shock.

Volkoff gives me a careful look. "I don't know how you can be here, but I suppose I must have underestimated you, or overestimated Kilgari and Frost. But, no matter. If nothing else, it is proof of how valuable you are and will be to me." His tone is business-like again.

Aculina gets up and takes a robe off a hook, ties it around her lingerie. I don't watch although I know she's doing it.

"Fritz!" Volkoff yells and walks a step or two into the room, but is careful to keep his distance from me. Aculina retrieves her gun. The train is moving fast now.

A man, huge and bearded, hulks into the room, bending down, then staring at me from above and behind Volkoff's shoulders.

The train continues to pick up speed. I need to know what happened in the rail yard. My heart bass-drums in my chest. And then my thoughts clear, slow down. I look at Aculina. My mom at the age of Volkoff's fateful Intersection. An image in his mind. A fixation.

He's never confronted them both at once. He replaced mom with a younger doppelganger. But Alexei Volkoff never knew that Mary Bartowski. Alexei Volkoff's fictional past does not include her.

It's all in your choice of weapons. Sarah in an intimate moment. But the advice applies now. Aculina, my weapon, Hartley's continuing fantasy, the anchor to his past. I use my opponent against himself. Aikido. Sarah's training.

Words come to me, deliberate. "She's my mom, you know," I offer, forcing my voice to echo the business-like tone of Volkoff's as I look at Aculina. "Mary Bartowski."

Volkoff's gaze had trailed mine to Aculina, puzzled; his head now snaps back to me, fearful. I imitate my mom's shrug as best I can.

"Mary?"

The question sounds confused and wistful all at once. I take a step toward Volkoff, who seems not to notice. He puts his empty hand to his forehead.

"Yes, my mom. Frost. Mary Bartowski. Wife of Stephen Bartowski. Your teammates at UCLA. She was your CIA partner."

I know Mom has tried to reach Hartley inside of Volkoff. She's tried for years. But I have an advantage. Mom could not simply reveal who she was. If she failed, Volkoff would have killed her, maybe gone looking for Dad, looking into her past, found me and Ellie. But I have Mom-from-then, from that fateful day when Hartley attacked Mom and escaped. I have her here, now. Aculina.

I look at her. As I do I ask, "Why's that image of my mom in your mind, Alexei?"

He stops rubbing his temple and looks at me. He looks at Aculina. He sees what I expect him to see. To the degree that she looks like my mom, then, she also resembles me, now. Volkoff squeezes his eyes shut.

The train moves faster, faster.

Volkoff opens his eyes. "I just imagined what she looked like younger. Frost. She's nobody's mother. She's a rogue American agent I bent to my will." Volkoff's voice cracks a little. He shakes his head.

Aculina and Fritz look at each other, unsure what is happening.

I take another step. "There is no Alexei Volkoff, Hartley. There's only you. Stephen Bartowski, the husband whose wife you coveted, Mary, uploaded a program into your mind, a Foolproof Cover. It took over, became Alexei Volkoff. There is no Alexei Volkoff."

Volkoff fires his gun at me but I see it coming and I dive out of the way, somersaulting across the bed and into Aculina. The Intersect calculates it all exactly, with gymnastic precision. Aculina slams against the wall, drops her gun. I catch it as it falls in one hand then grab her with the other, pulling her in front of me.

Volkoff is shaking his head still, his gun up but his eyes closed. When he opens them, I make sure my face is close to Aculina's face as I stand behind her. He sees us together. The family resemblance. The fear and uncertainty in his eyes are unmistakable.

"You're crazy," he says, trying to convince himself. "I am who I am. I am a self-made man, but I am not a work of fiction, Mr. Bartowski. I fought my way up, out of jungle hell holes in Cambodia, body by body, deal by deal.

"Alexei Volkoff became somebody. Somebody did not become Alexei Volkoff. There is no...Hartley."

He hangs onto that last word, his name. It lingers in the car, above the sound of the engine, the low roar of the rails. I can't get to Sarah if I can't get out of this car.

"Say your name again, Hartley. Who does not exist?"

Involuntarily, he says it. "Hartley. I do not exist." Volkoff wobbles on his feet.

Fritz bellows and pushes Volkoff aside as he rushes toward me, Aculina. He is crouched low and he launches himself onto the bed and then across it, one foot down to carry him over. I dive from behind Aculina, losing her gun, but Fritz cannot stop himself, slow his attack: he crashes into her, massive and heavy.

He sags, Aculina beneath his bulk. Fritz passes out. Aculina is either unconscious or dead.

When I rotate, Volkoff has his gun up again. His eyes are clear; his hand is steady.

"I don't know what you just did. Is hypnosis a part of your weaponry, the Intersect? That was impressive, but it failed. Now, just stay on that side of the bed." Volkoff keeps the gun trained on me but moves to one wall. He presses his hand against it and the wall slides away, revealing a cache of weapons. Like on The Wild Wild West. Casey.

"So," I say, stalling for time, feeling the train continuing to gain speed, but I can't tell how fast we are going, since I cannot see outside the car, "are you James West or Artemus Gordon?"

Volkoff blinks blankly. "What?"

"The TV show, the one with The Wanderer. The Wild Wild West. C'mon, Hartley. Somewhere in there, you remember." I gesture cautiously around. "You must, you even got the green color scheme right."

Volkoff's eyes cloud. He switches the gun to his other hand and quickly reaches into the cache of weapons, grabbing a tranq gun. I start whistling the show's theme song. His eyes cloud a bit more as he looks at me.

"You remember the opening, right, Hartley?" I unmoored him with Aculina, Mom. Now I keep pushing. Who knew that my misspent youth in front of re-runs could be weaponized?

"The opening cards, remember..." I switch to humming. "...James West, a drawing of West, lights a cigarette, walks along...," I hum, "...then a bad guy backs out of a bank and West, bang!, Karate chops him," I hum again, Volkoff staring at me with a distanced hunger, "...then he foils a card sharp, a card in a boot, gets held up at gunpoint, but kills the hand holding the gun..."

I pause for effect, understanding where I am taking this. "...Then...Then the beautiful saloon girl attracts his attention. He grabs her, pulls her to him, kisses her. She produces a knife to stab him in the back…It glints as she holds it up..." I stop the narration and he looks at me, a child wanting to know and not-know the rest of a scary story. "...Like Frost, my mom, when she saved me back at your compound, Hartley. She killed Kilgari and got me out. She's free too, free of you and your long nightmare, free to go back to her husband, her family, with her knife firmly planted in Volkoff's back…"

Volkoff makes a sound, half sob, half cry. He aims the tranq gun and fires, as he wipes at his face. I spring away, but the sudden burning sensation in my thigh tells me I was not fast enough. I hit the floor, the edges of my vision already going dark. I hear Volkoff talking, talking to himself. "There is no...Hartley. Only Volkoff. Frost is Frost, not a mother, a wife. I've never been to California…" The darkness narrows my field of vision, my consciousness. I feel the train, hear a metallic scream as the train rounds a curve...

...The world blacks out as an explosion rocks the train...

...When I wake to blue eyes.

Sarah. My love!

I reach for her and feel her grab me, hug me hard.

"Chuck! You're awake!"

She peppers my face with kisses. I try to kiss her back but my pucker seems slow. She laughs at me. I look down, realize I am buckled in a seat.

I don't understand what's happened. "Where am I? Where are we?"

"We're contraband on a plane back to the States, Chuck. Beckman got us out. It all happened fast."

I try to remember. "I was on the train…"

"Yes, but you aren't now, Chuck. We're on a plane."

"I need some water, some aspirin. My head." Sarah unbends, stands.

"I'll get it. I'll have to find the aspirin."

Casey comes into view, bends down, as Sarah steps away. He glances after her then smiles at me. "Kid, never, ever, cross that woman. I thought I knew what she was capable of...but, at that rail yard, when the guards poured out of the garage, lights suddenly everywhere, and that train started moving...Jesus, she became a whirling dervish of death." Casey trembles, awed by the memory, reliving it.

"Men fell like skinny pines in a Gulf hurricane, and then the chopper came roaring in, low, with a line down, and the next thing I know, it's going after the train with Sarah hanging from beneath it as it climbed and sped up. I'm standing there, as useless as shit on a shingle while she dangles above certain death."

He slows, looks at me. "I guess your dad talked the pilot into saving you. The pilot told me about what happened next. He caught up with the train and Sarah told him to get her over top of it. Then she dropped onto it as it moved, and it was screaming, careening. Volkoff had an escape plan and the engineer was following it, I guess. So Sarah manages to drop onto the train— in the dark, in the snow — and then to place an explosive on a vent in the ceiling. She backed away and shot it, blew a hole in the roof, and she dropped in, knocked Volkoff senseless, although she says he was on his knees, weeping, when she made it inside.

"Then she ran to the engine. The engineer was maybe the brother of that man-mountain in the car. It was like her fight with that Cole guy on the rooftop again but in a tiny, tiny space. Somehow she bested him hand-to-hand; I have no idea how. He outweighed her, like, three-to-one. She was afraid to shoot him for fear of damaging the engine. Moments after he went down, your father talked to her through a speaker in the engine, told her how to slow the train. She stopped it, and then she got you and Volkoff off the train and onto the trailing chopper after it landed. They picked me up as they returned."

Casey shook his head in wonderment. "Your wife-to-be is a seriously scary woman. I believed that before Burbank; I knew her reputation wasn't gas. And Burbank showed me. But what she did today. Hell, it should've been filmed with theme music."

"Like The Wild Wild West?" I say, smiling, beginning to feel a bit more human.

Casey nodded. "That'd do. Except she makes James West look like Barney Fife."

Sarah comes back, hears, shakes her head, and Casey grunts and moves away. I see him buckle himself in a fold-out seat nearby.

"He's exaggerating."

I shake my head. "No, he's not. He doesn't. — Thank you, Sarah." I look at her, trying to show her all that I feel unequal to saying.

She grins that shy grin. "I told you I expect to be making love to you somewhere today. No way I was going to give up on that." She winks at me and I glance down, suddenly shy myself, and notice the rope burns and bruises on her hands as she gives me the water, the aspirin.

"Sarah!"

She shakes her head. "They'll heal."

I take the aspirin. She unfolds a seat next to me and sits down.

"Where's Volkoff?"

"Restrained on a stretcher in another part of the plane. He'd collapsed by the time I got the train stopped. He awakened only briefly, but as Hartley. He's under for the duration of the flight. But at least, he's not dead. You may have saved him, Chuck; you captured him alive with prospects for recovery."

"We did." I hope we've ended the family curse. "What happened after you stopped the train?"

"Your dad told me how to use the thumb drive you had in your pocket. I was able to get past Volkoff's terminal security. His pass-phrase was 'A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths a statistic.'"

I frown, the Intersect turns over. "That's Stalin. Sick."

Sarah nods. "And then I inserted the drive, and your dad's programming took over. Dumped all of Volkoff's files into your father's system. He's given them to Beckman. It's all there. Contacts, suppliers, stockpiles. Fulcrum. The Ring. The Ring Elders — the people in the US government who ran the Rng for Volkoff. They should all be in custody by the time we land in DC."

"DC?" I ask, feeling a twinge of panic.

"Don't worry. Just a brief layover until we fly to Burbank. We're out, Chuck, or we will be once you compile the information you promised Beckman." She reaches in her pocket and takes out the President's fax, unfolds it, waving it like a victory flag.

"What about Mom?"

"Doing better, fully stable, but still sleeping when we left. I'm not sure she's really slept in years. — Stephen, your dad, was there. Beckman'll fly him back to the States when she's awake, clearly past her injury — a few days, probably. He told me he hopes Mary will come with him. Meantime, he's going to brief Ellie on everything Intersect. She'll start work on Volkoff, and tests on you, once we're back in Burbank, settled. She'll work out of Castle ."

"Do you think she will?"

"Huh?"

I realize the question is ambiguous. I could be asking about Mom or Ellie, about coming home or working in Castle. The drugs are still making me slow. "Mom, do you think she'll come back with Dad?"

Sarah looks down, folding and then returning the fax to her pocket. "Maybe. If I were you, Chuck, I wouldn't get my hopes up. The situation is…"

"...Complicated?" I ask. Sarah smiles at me, a touch of sadness in her blue eyes.

"Yes, very. I don't understand the...working relationship those two had, whether it was the end of their marriage or just...a stage in their marriage. Stephen was hopeful but..."

I notice that she's touching her wedding ring, engagement ring, as she speaks, turning it around her finger. I reach for her, resting my hand on her forearm.

"They've spent a lot of years in the dark. It'll take them time to adjust to the light, if they do. But we're out, Sarah. I hope she comes home with him. I hope they make it. If she does, I'll do all I can to help. If she doesn't, she might show up later, on her own. I wouldn't want to make a living betting on what Mom will do, or Dad, for that matter." I am quiet for a moment, thinking. "But I want to start our home."

She leans her head on my shoulder. "Me too, Chuck." After a moment, she sits up. "Oh, I guess your Dad is...um...really wealthy. Computer companies, electronics, patents. Roarke stole the old stuff but your dad's never stopped creating. The companies — they're real businesses, thriving, but he also used them to keep tabs on and to infiltrate Volkoff. — So, your dad says that he still owns your old house in...Tarzana?"

I give her a look of surprise. "Riiiight. Tarzana. Grew up there." I'm not sure I understand.

"He said we can have it if we want it, a starter house, but that we'll probably want to clean out the basement."

"Huh? Are you sure he said that? That house has no basement."

Sarah shakes her head. "That's what he said."

I ponder that for a minute. With Dad, it's hard to tell. I lean back in the seat and Sarah leans her head on my shoulder again.

"Wait," I say, sitting forward. Sarah looks at me. "What about Zariyah?"

"She's fine. Visiting her daughter today; they're going to spend some time in Moscow. She told me that the yurt is ours anytime we want it. — Say, did you know that she attacked Moe, Dr. Kilgari, after she injected you at the yurt? I forgot to tell you. Punched her right in the head." Sarah's laugh is soft. "And I guess your Mom made sure Zariyah had the keys to her car, so we could follow you once we woke up. — Whatever else you can say about your mom, Chuck, she's a good spy."

"Yes, that's true, but it's carrion comfort." She nods, taking my meaning. "Well, I'm relieved about Zariyah. Punched Moe right on her hairstack? — Maybe if we come back we can meet Zariyah's daughter."

Sarah agrees.

I sink back again, imagining what Casey told me, what Sarah did to save me, and remembering Zariyah's comment, after she picked us up at the train station. She told Sarah that when women like her loved, the mountains themselves must make way for their love.

I close my eyes, profoundly grateful. Thank God circumstances forced me onto the train in Prague. I feel Sarah caress my cheek with the tips of her fingers. My headache is gone.

How I could have won, or deserved, or whatever I did, the love of such a woman? How could she love me through all my mistakes and missteps? — But I am through with doubting, worrying; it's time to accept the unmerited favor of the universe that Sarah Walker is.

She leans her head on my shoulder again. The Intersect does not surge but gently rises as she settles against me; it seems to hum silently, all of me does.

Every integrated part of me loves Sarah Walker, even my computery parts. — Maybe I was made to love her? I don't pursue the thought. With exquisite care, I take one of her sore hands in mine and, two hands one, together, free, we fall asleep.

The End

Nothing Like A Train

A/N: Final thoughts?

I hope everyone comes through the pandemocalypse safe and well. Appreciate the folks who've read this story and reviewed it, or any of my others. See you down the line!